Paperback: 296 pages
Publisher: Vintage Romance Publishing (May 30, 2008)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0981559204
ISBN-13: 978-0981559209
Publisher: Vintage Romance Publishing (May 30, 2008)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0981559204
ISBN-13: 978-0981559209
To Purchase, click here.
Book Synopsis:
On a summer day in 1945, Louisa Gordon receives a telegram from the International Red Cross Tracing Service. Her young cousin, Elisabeth, has just been released from Dachau, a concentration camp, and Louisa is her only remaining relative.
Determined to go to war-torn Germany to retrieve her cousin, Louisa is also on a mission to discover the whereabouts of Friedrich Mueller, a Nazi sympathizer who fled Copper Springs, Arizona. What Louisa never expected was to meet the man she had once loved. And now hated.
Excerpt from the book:
I’ll never forget that summer night. Our last vestige of normalcy. One evening we sat down to dinner, and by the time we finished, our lives would never be the same.
It was a beastly hot night in early July, 1945. We were celebrating William’s seventh birthday with his favorite dinner: hot dogs and baked beans.
“You’re not eating, Louisa. I hope you’re not sick,” Aunt Martha said, peering at my face to discern an ailment, probably worried it might be contagious. Aunt Martha belonged to my husband, Robert. It was whispered among the church ladies that she hadn’t smiled since the Hoover Administration. Just the other day, I overheard one woman asking another if the preacher’s aunt had been baptized in pickle juice.
“I’m just not very hungry tonight,” I told her.
“That’s certainly not like you, Louisa,” said Robert, glancing up at me, looking a bit concerned.
It was true. I wasn’t one of those women who scarcely ate. I never missed a meal. I brushed Robert’s cheek with my hand then deftly changed the subject. “Time to open the presents.”
William ripped off the newspaper wrapping of the present I had handed to him. “Junior Spy Kit,” he read slowly, in his thick sounding pronunciation, pressing his small finger along the lettering.
“A spy kit?” Robert’s eyebrows shot up. “Why on earth would you give a spy kit to a boy already blessed with an overabundance of curiosity?”
“Exactly because of that, Robert,” I reassured him. “He can practice his reading, his writing, his observation skills, his attention-to-detail. He’ll be learning as he plays. I’ve been reading a book that encourages deaf children to develop their awareness of life around them. It’s a good thing for him.”
“He’ll be spying on everyone in this town!” complained Aunt Martha. “No one will be safe.” She pursed her lips in that way I deplored. “You’ve been telling him stories again about being a resister.”
“A Resistance Worker, Aunt Martha,” I corrected her, frowning. She had never fully understood the role I played working with the Resistance Movement in Germany. To her, it seemed like child’s play. But I took my experience as a Resistance Worker very seriously. Very, very seriously. It was a dangerous but important job.
Well, mostly, I delivered messages to other Resistance Workers. Written messages. In sealed envelopes. While on assignment, I wasn’t even permitted to talk. My colleagues seemed to be under the impression that I was too outspoken. Dietrich, my friend and mentor, often remarked that he was sure I would get myself shot if I dared to open my mouth.
So I didn’t.
Even still, the Gestapo started following us, tapping our phones. Everywhere I went, an agent watched me, not caring if I saw him or not. Over my objections, Dietrich decided I should leave Germany, at once, and wait out the war in the United States. Before I knew it, Dietrich whisked me off in the dark of night to the Swiss border. After a rushed goodbye, I was in the hands of Resistance Workers, passed like fragile baggage from contact to contact.
One month later, I had arrived in Copper Springs, Arizona, to stay indefinitely at the home of Reverend Robert Gordon, courtesy of our mutual friend Dietrich Bonhoeffer. The two men had attended the Union Theological Seminary in New York in 1931 and became friends. They had kept in touch over the years. When Dietrich asked if he would sponsor someone for safekeeping, Robert readily agreed, assuming it would be a young man. The surprised look on his face when I stepped off that train will forever make me smile.
Once or twice I have wondered if Robert would still have agreed so readily had he known all that decision would hold for him.
William was studying the bubbles in his root beer bottle. He looked up at Robert. “Mom was brave.” Even though William wasn’t really my son, the bond between us was as strong as any between a mother and child.
“You’re right, William,” Robert said. “She was brave.” He stole a glance at Aunt Martha and noticed she was peering into a pot on the stove. Satisfied she was preoccupied, he leaned over and kissed the violin curve of my neck before getting up to refill his glass of iced tea.
Was I brave? Not really. I never felt very brave. But I never doubted I was doing the right thing. I was a Resistance Worker because I couldn’t help myself. The war had to be stopped. Hitler had to be stopped.
Just then, someone knocked on the door. Robert went to open it and found Ernest standing solemnly on the porch. “Come in and join us! We’re celebrating William’s birthday.”
“Thank you, but I’m here on official business, Reverend. I have a telegram for your missus.” Ernest handed the telegram to Robert and abruptly left. I looked at Robert, puzzled.
He shrugged. “Open it. It’s for you.” He held it out to me.
I tore open the envelope, not having any idea about its contents or who might have sent it. But as I pulled the thin yellow paper out of the envelope, our lives irrevocably changed.
It was a beastly hot night in early July, 1945. We were celebrating William’s seventh birthday with his favorite dinner: hot dogs and baked beans.
“You’re not eating, Louisa. I hope you’re not sick,” Aunt Martha said, peering at my face to discern an ailment, probably worried it might be contagious. Aunt Martha belonged to my husband, Robert. It was whispered among the church ladies that she hadn’t smiled since the Hoover Administration. Just the other day, I overheard one woman asking another if the preacher’s aunt had been baptized in pickle juice.
“I’m just not very hungry tonight,” I told her.
“That’s certainly not like you, Louisa,” said Robert, glancing up at me, looking a bit concerned.
It was true. I wasn’t one of those women who scarcely ate. I never missed a meal. I brushed Robert’s cheek with my hand then deftly changed the subject. “Time to open the presents.”
William ripped off the newspaper wrapping of the present I had handed to him. “Junior Spy Kit,” he read slowly, in his thick sounding pronunciation, pressing his small finger along the lettering.
“A spy kit?” Robert’s eyebrows shot up. “Why on earth would you give a spy kit to a boy already blessed with an overabundance of curiosity?”
“Exactly because of that, Robert,” I reassured him. “He can practice his reading, his writing, his observation skills, his attention-to-detail. He’ll be learning as he plays. I’ve been reading a book that encourages deaf children to develop their awareness of life around them. It’s a good thing for him.”
“He’ll be spying on everyone in this town!” complained Aunt Martha. “No one will be safe.” She pursed her lips in that way I deplored. “You’ve been telling him stories again about being a resister.”
“A Resistance Worker, Aunt Martha,” I corrected her, frowning. She had never fully understood the role I played working with the Resistance Movement in Germany. To her, it seemed like child’s play. But I took my experience as a Resistance Worker very seriously. Very, very seriously. It was a dangerous but important job.
Well, mostly, I delivered messages to other Resistance Workers. Written messages. In sealed envelopes. While on assignment, I wasn’t even permitted to talk. My colleagues seemed to be under the impression that I was too outspoken. Dietrich, my friend and mentor, often remarked that he was sure I would get myself shot if I dared to open my mouth.
So I didn’t.
Even still, the Gestapo started following us, tapping our phones. Everywhere I went, an agent watched me, not caring if I saw him or not. Over my objections, Dietrich decided I should leave Germany, at once, and wait out the war in the United States. Before I knew it, Dietrich whisked me off in the dark of night to the Swiss border. After a rushed goodbye, I was in the hands of Resistance Workers, passed like fragile baggage from contact to contact.
One month later, I had arrived in Copper Springs, Arizona, to stay indefinitely at the home of Reverend Robert Gordon, courtesy of our mutual friend Dietrich Bonhoeffer. The two men had attended the Union Theological Seminary in New York in 1931 and became friends. They had kept in touch over the years. When Dietrich asked if he would sponsor someone for safekeeping, Robert readily agreed, assuming it would be a young man. The surprised look on his face when I stepped off that train will forever make me smile.
Once or twice I have wondered if Robert would still have agreed so readily had he known all that decision would hold for him.
William was studying the bubbles in his root beer bottle. He looked up at Robert. “Mom was brave.” Even though William wasn’t really my son, the bond between us was as strong as any between a mother and child.
“You’re right, William,” Robert said. “She was brave.” He stole a glance at Aunt Martha and noticed she was peering into a pot on the stove. Satisfied she was preoccupied, he leaned over and kissed the violin curve of my neck before getting up to refill his glass of iced tea.
Was I brave? Not really. I never felt very brave. But I never doubted I was doing the right thing. I was a Resistance Worker because I couldn’t help myself. The war had to be stopped. Hitler had to be stopped.
Just then, someone knocked on the door. Robert went to open it and found Ernest standing solemnly on the porch. “Come in and join us! We’re celebrating William’s birthday.”
“Thank you, but I’m here on official business, Reverend. I have a telegram for your missus.” Ernest handed the telegram to Robert and abruptly left. I looked at Robert, puzzled.
He shrugged. “Open it. It’s for you.” He held it out to me.
I tore open the envelope, not having any idea about its contents or who might have sent it. But as I pulled the thin yellow paper out of the envelope, our lives irrevocably changed.
About the author:
College, marriage and small children...in the midst of those busy years, Suzanne started free lance writing for magazines, most frequently for Christian Parenting Today, part of Christianity Today, International. She eventually became a contributing editor.
Serendipitous, as her grandfather had been one of the first publishers for Christianity Today magazine,started by Billy Graham and his father-in-law, Dr. L. Nelson Bell, back in the 1950s.
Suzanne contributed to the award-winning Praying for the World's 365 Most Influential People by David Kopp (Harvest House), a book chosen to be placed on the breakfast table settings for the National Day of Prayer in Washington D.C.
On the home front, she and husband Steve raised their children (two boys and two girls) in a number of different locations: Houston, Seattle, Hong Kong. Each time, they returned back to California where Steve’s consumer products company was headquartered. One of her favorite memories is sitting in a 44-story high rise in Hong Kong, overlooking the South China Sea, and writing articles—sent via the newly-hatched-and-full-of-kinks Internet—back to Christian Parenting Today or Marriage Partnership or other magazines.
So, after returning back from four years in Hong Kong, Suzanne found she had lost her “writing wind.” There was a lot going on in family life—her dad was starting to show symptoms of Alzheimer’s Disease, her kids were acclimating to life back in the states. The older two were starting to drive (oh dear, oh dear, oh dear); college was looming on the horizon for her eldest. A lot at stake, it seemed.
Out of the blue, Suzanne's niece sent her the book If You Want to Write by Brenda Ueland, first published in 1938. Just the needed "oomph factor!" She had an idea for a novel... and just started to write. And write. And write. And re-write.
That story? Copper Star, published by Vintage in June 2007. Its sequel, Copper Fire, will be released in May 2008.
All in all, she’s grateful to the Lord for giving her a love of words, and The Word.
COPPER FIRE VIRTUAL BOOK TOUR ‘08 will officially begin on August 4, 2008 and continue all month. You can visit Suzanne’s tour stops at http://www.virtualbooktours.wordpress.com/ in August to find out more about her and her book!
As a special promotion for all our authors, Pump Up Your Book Promotion is giving away a FREE virtual book tour to a published author with a recent release or a $25 Amazon gift certificate to those not published who comments on our authors’ blog stops. More prizes will be announced as they come available. The winners will be announced on this blog on August 31!
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